


now i’m all alone (watching them destroy my throne)

by caitss



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Character Death, Hurt/No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Isolation, NDRV3 Spoilers, Past Suicide Attempt, Post-Game, Self-Loathing, no happy ending, will probably delete soon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-23
Updated: 2018-02-23
Packaged: 2019-03-22 21:51:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13773306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caitss/pseuds/caitss
Summary: [MAJOR NDRV3 SPOILERS]Kirumi leaves a crumpled up sticky note on the kitchen counter.





	now i’m all alone (watching them destroy my throne)

**Author's Note:**

> no re-read or typo fixing or editing, i’m so tired and wanted to cram this in lmao thanks for reading

Her house is dark.

Too dark, a lot of people would say. To her, it’s just fine. The light was too bright and seared her eyes, it was loud and vibrant. Darkness seemed cooler, soothing, and quiet, the pitch black blanket warm and almost welcoming. Almost, because this world never had anything that was welcoming. Kirumi sits at her kitchen counter, an empty plate in front of her. There is nothing, only silence and the sheet of black, the leer of loneliness accompanying. She doesn’t know what’s going to happen next, only knowing that once it’s all finished, she’ll never burn her eyes out again. 

Kirumi picks up the plate like a robot, and walks over to the sink. For people who hadn’t shut themselves in, this would be terribly hard or unsettling, but it felt like routine. A long time ago, she had struggled not to fall into one, but it appears she lost that battle anyway. Even loneliness was bearable, once you let the darkness seep in and cut your skin. But even the most depressing of emotions are dull when they fall flat, after all, they could leave just as quickly as happy ones. Kirumi didn’t really care for recovery at this point; she grasped whatever emotion that resonated inside her and trapped it in her closed off heart, only opening to consume whatever was left. 

She stares. The simulation was over, and now she was trapped. The illusion of free will the survivors provided only lasted for so long, until they realized it was all lies and paradise faded to black. Kirumi’s fingers - that weren’t gloved, never gloved - brush her arms, looking at the wounds that no one bothered to see. She retracts her hands and looks at the light leaking through the window, touching everything in it’s way. Consuming. She looks away. 

Kirumi finds herself washing the dishes, no matter how pristine they were. She douses them in soap and water, scrubbing until her hands are raw. She dries them off, and feels more like a machine that she ever did in the killing game. Placing the plates back in their original places, she walks stiffly over to the living room and rest there. She doesn’t relax though; she never relaxes anymore. Instead, she sits stiffly with her back straight, resting uncomfortably. She doesn’t switch on the T.V. or busy herself with unneeded tidying, she just sits there. Kirumi’s eyes burn holes in the wall, and everything spins. She’s used to it by now, she counts the scars on her arms in her head and thinks of cracking mirrors just to fix them again.

She wasn’t really busy anymore. Now, Kirumi does the same things over and over again, as if trying to control her predetermined life. Even without the script and the strings, she was still a puppet; there was no happy end, only the harsh reality and a disgusting humanity. She never excludes herself from that humanity. She’s just as sick as they all are, and there is no justification. God (Not Angie’s. Or maybe she doesn’t have one. Kirumi doesn’t know anymore.) knows who has an idea of what’s happening to her; they probably just don’t care. Kirumi doesn’t really care either; the three survivors could rot for all she cares. She’d rather stay in that simulation for all eternity than be here. 

The survivors had a strange thought process. What was the point in ending Danganronpa? They signed up for it anyway; shouldn’t they pay for their actions? Whatever, it didn’t matter. It does more damage when she isn’t stuck in between fiction and reality, it hurts more when she knows it isn’t real. That wasn’t a truth she was ready for yet, and she never was. Everything here is a lie, too, so what was the point in dragging them out of ‘hell’ only to place them back in again? Kirumi doesn’t care, though; at least, that’s what she wants everyone around her to think. 

Everyone around her screamed at night; her mouth was always sealed shut. Speaking was a waste of time. Who would listen to her words anyway? Besides, struggling mentally ill kids have more pressing issues than a dead girl with hollow eyes’s words. So she silenced herself, because no one else would. When everyone else screamed and tried to break out again and again, Kirumi sat in the dark with empty eyes and a soundless scream. Scream wasn’t the right word, though, because she never screamed. She never spoke; her daily routine didn’t involve uttering a word. Which was, like always, fine with her.

Kirumi, without a doubt, hated herself. It was the one thing she didn’t question, the issue that felt like it wasn’t spun up in a maniac’s head. She always found herself staring in her mirror, examining her pale and sickly skin. Though, she only guessed that’s what it looked like; the dark did crawl over her body and wrap around her reflection, making it near impossible to identify her ugly imperfections. It was like a warning that she would hate herself even more now if she saw; which was ridiculous, she already hated herself more than she was capable of. Kirumi stands and heads to the bathroom, opening up the drawer and pulling out a capsule. 

She trudges over to the counter, her jaw set and her decision made. It was made a while back, when she decided to shoot herself in the head; she can still feel the cool gun pressed against her temple, her finger ready to pull the trigger. Kirumi remembers how she wussed out and went home, her hands shaking away. She still had that gun.

Kirumi remembers hours of therapy for four years, and it was the biggest joke. Nothing changed, everything got worse. The world felt dull and more flawed, and she constantly felt the chills when her therapist told her to vent. She talks about cracking Ryoma’s skull (not really) and drowning him. She talks about a execution full of thorns and wrapped with deceit, a bow of false hope. And everyday, her guts spill out onto the white tile and remain there. She feels unsafe. She is unsafe. 

She had always wanted to die. It felt like death would be a escape, rather than a curse. Life felt like a burden on her shoulders, cracking at each sudden movement. It was so heavy, living and smiling, having good times and being a good person. The whole thing was too much for her; she couldn’t be all of those, she couldn’t be all of what she isn’t. Then again, she lived through being a maid with laughable devotion, a plain personality and a face worth forgetting. Kirumi wants to smoothen out her long skirt, but she isn’t wearing one - and never will again. 

Her palms sweat as she rolls the capsule around in her hand, the messy prewritten note stuck to the kitchen counter.  
The sound of the cap opening fills the air.

Kirumi doesn’t let herself leave, though. After all, she never belonged here in the first place.


End file.
